


This Deathless Death

by Uliet



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Mental and physical torture, NSFW content (eventually. probably), TW: continual allusions to sexual abuse, sort of, the story takes a dramatic turn anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uliet/pseuds/Uliet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Danarius enlists Meredith's help when he corners Fenris at the Hanged Man. Hawke is forced to give him up. But when she gets a letter from Danarius thanking her for returning his property she throws caution, international law, and the threat of starting a war with Tevinter to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> I regularly update the trigger warnings for the whole of the story, and I would prefer not to post them at the start of each chapter to avoid spoilers. However, if my readers really do want them I can oblige, just ask.
> 
> find me on Tumblr: fen-uliet.tumblr.com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke has a run in with a sexy elf assassin and imagines that Fenris might be jealous. A reading lesson. Fenris gets unexpected news. So does Hawke. An excess of fluff occurs.

“Excellent!” the elf assassin said. “Killing my former brothers in arms is oddly satisfying. I’ve little reward to offer you, Champion, but perhaps this will serve as a token of my thanks.”

Zevran handed Marie Hawke a small bag of coins. Over the years she had gained a practiced hand, and the weight felt as though it only amounted to one sovereign. But the dagger he handed her next was almost worth her asking price. Not bad, all things considered. Even if those things did include spiders, traps, Varterrals, and lying bastards. At least she’d gotten a few compliments out of him. She was willing to knock a few sovereigns off the bill for a charming smile and a lie or two about her beauty. It had been a while since anyone had paid her that much attention—not that she’d have noticed much if they had. Maybe she just had a thing for deadly elves. Maybe it was the ears. Or the persistent blood splatters.

“Is time for me to move on,” Zevran continued. His eyes flickered downward and she got the distinct impression he putting a price tag on more than just her boots. “Unless you’d, uh… care to get to know each other a little better, Champion?” His grin was dazzling, moving the tattoo on the left side of his face in a most pleasing way. Oh it had been a while for her… And he was, to put it mildly, delicious. She had no doubt that she would remember a night with him for the rest of her life. But there was another night that came rushing back into her mind, one that could never be sponged away in her memory. Ah well, perhaps in another life.

Hawke had barely even taken in a breath to decline his tempting offer when a voice cut sharp from her left.

“That depends,” Fenris growled. “How much do you wish to test that luck of yours?” There was no telltale glow from his markings but she felt a pulse of power from his markings nonetheless. It made her skin tingle. But it was the look on his face that surprised her. She was used to his hatred and rage toward slavers and, rather memorably, their encounter with Hadriana, but the look was giving Zevran was… murderous to say the least.

“Oh I see,” Zevran said. His entire demeanor changed into what might have passed for professionalism. “Fair enough then. It is time to move on, as they say. I have a war to wage back home and so little time.” He bowed. “Perhaps we will meet again, Champion,” he said without a trace of his previous flirtatiousness, and walked off. Hawke must have been staring at his retreating back a little too long because she heard someone clearing his throat loudly to her left again. Fenris was watching her, face dark.  
“What?” she asked, shrugging. “It’s not like I have anyone else to flirt with.” And she turned away from him, nudging Nuncio’s corpse aside with her boot and plodding off down the path. Her friends were suspiciously quiet behind her. Not even Varric had a smart ass remark. At least, not one he was willing to say within earshot of Fenris. The dwarf may have loved a good joke as much as Hawke, but he wasn’t suicidal.

Jealousy. That’s what she’d seen in his face. Not just anger, not just hatred, but cold hard _jealousy_. But he had been the one walking out three years ago, why should she care? Damnit all, she did. She’d never really been angry with him. She’d tried to be, but she understood why he’d done it. He’d kept his distance after that, or tried to, and he’d talked more than once about leaving Kirkwall for good, but he hadn’t. For all his talk, he was still right there in Hightown, just a few streets away from her. And she’d had her hopes. When she’d offered to teach him how to read, she’d hoped that their time alone together would spark whatever he’d felt for her that night. Even if sex was too difficult for him, she wouldn’t have cared. She’d have been willing to never have sex ever again in her life if it meant he would stay by her side. But, while the reading lessons had done measures to repair their friendship, he’d kept them strictly professional. And even though he still wore her favors, not a word passed his lips that made her believe he ever thought about that night; not the way she did. He had the luxury of sleeping in a bed untouched by memory. She passed every night with her fingers running over sheets that still smelled like him, even though the actual scent was long gone. Her head still rested on a pillow that she’d bitten to stifle her moans. The fire that warmed her bedroom now had felt so cold as he stood beside it and repeated those horrible words: “I can’t… I can’t.”

No hope. That’s what she’d survived on the last three years. They’d remained friends, and he’d been warm enough in that regard, but she’d harbored no hope that he’d ever show up on her doorstep again. “ _I’ve been thinking about you_.” Those words still circled around her head, fueling lost fantasies. “ _In fact I’ve been able to think of little else. Command me to go_ …” They echoed in her mind late at night. He hadn’t waited for her to make the first move. The longing in him had driven him, and he took what he wanted. Namely her.

The jealousy toward Zevran had been strong. Too strong. He had obviously been burying it deep for some time for it to lash out so viciously. Had he almost lost control? Or had he been in complete command of himself when she felt the power of his markings pulse, ready to activate and kill his rival? She had to laugh at that. Rival. And rival for what, exactly?

Perhaps there was some hope after all. She was no mage, but she could feel his gaze on her. She’d always been well tuned to him, especially after that night. Almost like he had left a trace of himself inside of her. At first she thought it was her imagination when she felt the buzz on her skin when they fought side by side, how the feel of his power crackled over her skin. She’d thought it was just some pathetic part of her that yearned for the touch she’d so enjoyed, unable to accept that she could never have it again. Now her skin pricked still, but it wasn’t from the markings in his flesh. They were probably all staring at her, but his gaze burned the hottest. A little flutter of hope rose in her chest and she beat it down again, hoping it would die like the Crows in the camp. With lots of blood and screaming.

* * *

 

The four adventurers muttered tired goodbyes at the gates of Kirkwall. It had been a long, bloody day and what felt like an even longer walk. Varric wandered off to the Hanged Man, asking Fenris if he’d be around for cards later. For once, Fenris declined. That surprised Hawke perhaps even more than the flash of jealousy she’d seen up on Sundermount. Although in the long walk back she’d managed to convince herself that it had largely been her imagination. If Fenris had shown any sort of emotion, it had been annoyance. They’d all been hot and tired and sticky with blood and sweat. No one had wanted to be stuck waiting around while their Champion got laid. And no one had tact like Fenris.

Anders, who had also been suspiciously quiet on the way back save for a constant muttering under his breath, wandered off to his Darktown clinic without even a goodbye, leaving Hawke alone with Fenris as they walked down the street in the gathering dark. He hadn’t said a word since they parted ways with Zevran. His silence was even louder now.

Hawke muttered a quick “goodnight” when they passed her door and reached for her key. She did not expect Fenris to stop beside her.  
“Will we have a reading lesson tonight?” he asked.

Hawke nearly dropped her key as she fumbled at the lock. “Tonight? Uh… Sure. Yeah. Sure. I… are you sure? It’s been a long day.”

In the low light it was hard to tell if there really was disappointment on his face or just her overactive imagination again.

“Ah. Perhaps you are right.” No, there was definite disappointment in his voice. His head was hung low, his shoulders slumped. She hadn’t seen him adopt that posture since her first year with him, when he still thought of himself as little more than an escaped slave. He turned to go, a slight shuffle to his feet. That hope flared up again, bright and shouting for her attention.

“Let me just clean up a bit,” she said in a rush. He looked over his shoulder. “I just want to get the worst of the blood off.”

“You know I don’t mind,” he said, straightening.

“It’ll just take a bit, if you don’t waiting in the library.”

“I would prefer if we went to my mansion.” She raised an eyebrow. “The book I have in mind is there.

That surprised her, too. “Oh. We haven’t finished— Never mind. I’ll meet you at yours in half an hour?”

Fenris looked toward the red glow over the western buildings. The sun was already completely gone.

“It will be after dark by that time. Even you should not walk these street alone. Perhaps I should stay until you are ready.”

“You need a bath as much as I do,” she laughed. _You could join me_ , she wanted to say, then inwardly smacked herself. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stick to the shadows. Besides, I’ve come to your place plenty of times after dark.”

“I know. And I worry every time. I will see you in half an hour’s time, Hawke. Don’t be late or I shall be forced to come looking for you.”

“Then I shall endeavor to bathe myself and appear for your pleasure in a timely manner.”

* * *

 

Hawke unlocked the mansion door and slipped in before she removed her hood and the leather mask she kept drawn across the lower half of her face. She didn’t wear it often; it got rather stuffy under the mask rather quickly, but it was ideal when she needed to blend into the shadows. Her dark clothes did wonders for camouflage, but that was all for naught when her pale moon-like face shone out from the dark corners of Kirkwall. At least with the mask and the deep cowl of her hood pulled up, only her eyes showed. And unlike Fenris, hers didn’t glow in the dark.

He was useless at stealth.

A bottle of wine and two glasses were sitting on the table when Hawke walked into the room Fenris confined himself to. An entire mansion at his disposal and she never saw any evidence that he wandered beyond this ancient bedroom. A fire was roaring in the hearth, his sword was leaning against the bed, and the lute was resting against a bench. She’d walked in on him plucking at it once, trying to pick out a tune by ear. When he saw her standing there he’d dropped it like it had bit him, and he never once spoke of it. But occasionally when she visited it would be in some new corner of the room. She gave it an experimental strum now; it had recently been tuned.

“Do you play at all?” Fenris said behind her, and she jumped. He had a silent way of moving that was not at all what she would expect from a warrior. He may have been named for the Wolf but his grace was distinctively feline. She amended her slight on his stealth.

“Only some, and not very well.”

“Modesty does not become you,” he said warmly, and she wondered if he’d already been into the wine. “I’ve heard you sing, when I come to the estate and I ask Bodahn not to announce me yet. I stand outside your room and listen to you play Orana’s lute. Why do you not sing more often?”

“I haven’t had much cause to.” He nodded, saying no more. The glass of wine that was in his hand he pressed into hers. It was an odd gesture; they’d never bothered with glasses before, normally they sharing a bottle between them. It felt more intimate to her. It almost seemed like he was distancing himself from her with this small, seemingly innocuous gesture, and it made her heart sink.

“How is she?” he asked, dragging her out of her thoughts.

“Who?”

“Orana.” Hawke raised an eyebrow, suspicious. She had actively kept them apart on his visits to the estate, not because she thought the elf maid was in any rival for Fenris’ interest, but because she was a constant reminder to Fenris of what he had been. Worse, the common denominator between them was Hadriana. And where the bitch had been a torment for Fenris, Orana seemed to have comparatively pleasant memories of her. As pleasant as being absolutely terrified of pissing her off could be. But still, Hadriana hadn’t taken a gleeful pleasure in torturing Orana the way she had Fenris.

“In three years you have’t once asked after her. Why now?”

“I’m curious how she’s adjust to being a well-treated servant instead of a terrified slave.”

“It has been difficult for her, I’ll admit. I’ve done my best, but she still won’t even leave the house without express instructions.”

“I have no doubt you have great affection for her. You do have a tendency to collect wayward elves.” The tone in his voice made her chuckle.

“A little jealous of Zevran, were we?”

“Perhaps.” His face hardened a little. “Were you really considering his proposal?”

“Not for a moment.” The smile he rewarded her with set her soul ablaze. Perhaps she should tell him. Just risk it. Ask if he’d be willing to try again. She would never pressure him for a physical relationship, she merely wanted to be with _him_. What was the worst that would happen?  
She could loose him forever. Courage gone, she grasped the neck of the lute out of desperation for something else to say and offered him the instrument.

“Would you play for me?” she asked.

The abrupt change in conversation seemed to derail whatever thoughts were going around in his head and his smile faltered. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s only fair. You lurk outside my bedroom to hear me sing, you should have to put on a little performance for me.”

Fenris shook his head with a short laugh. “Not tonight. I promised to read to you.” The book he picked up was thick with an ancient leather cover and a red bookmark toward the very back. She recognized it immediately as the book Shartan had written; the book she had give him a little less that three years ago. The book that had kept them together as friends when the awkwardness of the the morning after had threatened to keep them apart. “I have been working my way slowly through it, and I found a passage that I want to read with you.”

“Do you need help with it?”

“No. I merely thought you would appreciate it.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Read on, then.”

Fenris opened the book gingerly, almost reverently, his steel claws turning the old pages with a delicate precision. She wished he’d take them off. What she wouldn’t give for the sight of his long, elegant fingers one more time. But it would never happen again.  
After a long draw off his wine, Fenris began to read aloud. It was instantly evident to her that he had practiced this section for weeks. His voice, usually halting and unsure, was melodic and confident. The words tasted rich in his mouth, she could tell, and he pronounced each one with a pleasure he hadn’t shown in any of their lessons.

“My soul was restless and I entered the courtyard that night for little more than a breath of air. The night was warm this far north, and the moon hung heavy and low on the horizon. She had just risen, and had cast off her shrouds the bare herself to us all, casting a golden light on me as I paced the courtyard. Her light soothed and nurtured, and I turned my face to her as I wandered in my solitude. The others had retired within and I craved the company only of that blessed moon. My restless spirit prowled the confines of my body, yearning to reach out for what, I did not know.

“But my spirit could feel _Her_ call, and it was _She_ that it led me to. As I entered the gardens I found it not deserted but the sanctuary of our blessed guide, the beloved Andraste.” Here Fenris’ voice faltered a moment, but only just. “Her effulgence outshone even the moon, and in that celestial orb’s shame she hid behind a passing cloud and threw our garden into darkness. But my lady’s light did not dim. Her radiance drew my spirit forth, into her, and I found myself powerless. I who, like her, had once called myself a slave, whose flesh had once been the property of other men, would give myself willingly to my lady.

“But for all my longing, I could not approach her. She is the Maker’s chosen, loved by Him. So I merely watched her, within my reach yet unable to touch her. Guilt weighed heavy upon my heart, for I violated her with my stare. But as I turned to go I realized she had been aware of me all the while I had watched her. She turned and looked at me, and in her gaze I was naked and prostrate before her. And in that look I saw reflected in her my same longing, verboten. With a gesture she invited me to her side. No obeisance would she accept from me, but she bade me stand beside her an equal; no longer an elven slave with ears docked but a man of free will and desires. It was not my debt to her that kept me at her side. I could never leave her. I will never leave her. I will live and die by her side, even though what I truly desire can never be.”

Fenris closed the book gently and laid it on the table. Without looking at her, he finished his glass of wine and poured another. Hawke slid her hand over his, tracing the shape of the gauntlet’s joints. Every thing about the metal’s sharp edges screamed “don’t touch me” but she traced her fingertips over its lines, its points, cradling his hand in her lap as she did so. She could feel his eyes on her face but she did not look up at him, just kept her gaze on the shapes her fingers traced. He turned his wrist so that his bare palm was exposed to her, and she touched his warm skin, carful not to touch the four lines of lyrium the ran from wrist to fingertips. It was no wonder he always wore the gauntlets. Danarius had made it so that even touching the world around him hurt. Fenris shivered when she tickled his skin, but it was not the shudder of pain she knew so well—those moments when he thought she wasn’t looking and he tried to contain the shadow of agony he still felt. The shiver that ran though his body earned a barely perceptible sound from his throat, halfway between a sign and a moan. She raked her fingers lightly up his arm and heard his sharp intake of break when she touched the bare skin on the inside of his elbow, her fingertips having brushed over the lyrium tattoos. He did not pull away, however, but leaned in closer, her shoulder against his chest, his other arm circling around her. He was still watching her closely, his face inches away from hers. His breath tickled her ear and he made no protest as she reached for the buckled on the leather strap around his arm. His armguard came away easily, followed by the leather-sculpted feathers and their sharp tips. She removed his gauntlet carefully, savoring every inch of skin as it was revealed, and laid it on the table.  
He took her hand and wove his fingers with hers, gripping tightly as if to let go would be to lose her, or to fall. His other arm tightened around her and he bowed his head beside hers, his mouth brushing her cheek. His breath was hot on her skin and had a ragged edge to it as he brushed his lips across her ear, but never sealed upon her skin.

“That passage,” she said quietly, and he withdrew only a fraction. “It seems so private to be in his autobiography.”

“It was from his personal journal, added to the book later,” Fenris said into her ear. “Their last moment together.”

“Last?”

“The magisters took her the following day after Maferath betrayed her. Shartan never told her how he felt before they were both immolated.”  
Hawke turned her head to look him in the eye. “She knows.” Still gripping her hand tight, Fenris raised it to his face, brushing his lips over her fingers. He opened her hand and laid a warm, lingering kiss on her palm, then pressed it to his own cheek and held it there, eyes closed, breathing deep. Hawke leaned in, slipping her fingers into his hair—

The lock on the front door clicked and it banged open.

“Fenris!” Aveline shouted. Hawke drew back.

“She has a key?” Hawke had to admit, she was a little put out. Yes, it was petty, but she thought that _she_ was the only person Fenris had trusted with a key to his mansion.

“She insisted,” he said as armored footsteps clanged up the steps to the room they were in. “She is guard captain, after all, and keeping people from noticing I’m here is a full time job. Although it is mostly Donnic who uses it.”

 _Fair enough_ , Hawke thought, even if she wasn’t all that happy about it. The door swung open just as they slid apart.

“Hawke,” Aveline said by way of greeting, completely oblivious to the mutinous looks she was getting from the Champion.

“This is not a good time—“ Fenris started.

“We found her.”

The room was so quiet that Hawke swore she could hear the the rats in the cellar. ‘Her’ who?

After a moment Fenris turned to Hawke and in a restrained voice said “I’m sorry. This is important to me.”

“It’s alright, we have time. It’s not like I’m about to be handed over the magisters by a jealous husband.” He did not smile as she stood up and walked over to the fireplace to let them talk.

Fenris was notorious for changing his moods at the drop of a hat, but this change in him was so extreme that he was almost a completely different man. Aveline had settled herself down at the table while he paced furiously.

“Are you certain it’s her?”

“An elf, matching your description on the ship you named. And alone, as far as I could tell.”

Fenris stopped pacing only to slam his fists down on the table. “I need to know if it’s a trap!”

“I did as you asked, Fenris,” Aveline said patiently, though it was clear her patience was nearing an end. “The rest is up to you.” She stood up, leaving him bent over the table trying to contain himself. “You talk to him, Hawke,” Aveline said as she walked to the door. “I’ve had my fill for today.” And she was gone. When Hawke turned back to Fenris he was angrily strapping his gauntlet back on.

“ _Venhedis_ ,” he swore. “ _Fasta vass_!”

“Maybe I can help, Fenris.” He started pacing again, a caged wolf prowling the edge of his confines.

“It’s my sister. I didn’t tell you, but I followed up on Hadriana’s information. Everything she said was true. I had to keep it quiet but I eventually contacted Varania and sent her coin enough to meet me. And how she’s here.”

“She was in Qarinus after all?”

“My sister left Magister Ahriman’s service, and I found her in Minrathous.” Cold ice poured down Hawke’s spine. “That made things more difficult. But… according to the men I paid, it’s just as Hadriana said. She’s not a slave. She’s a tailor, in fact. Getting a letter to her was difficult, and she didn’t believe me at first… But she’s finally come.”

“You’re worried Danarius knows?”

“The more it seems he doesn’t know, the more certain I become he does!” He stepped toward her suddenly. “Come with me, Hawke,” he pleaded, and his hand reached across the table to grip hers. “I need you there when I meet her.”

“Where is she?”

“If we go to the Hanged Man, she’ll be there. For the next week, at least.” His face softened. “It would mean a lot to me. That’s all I ask.”

“You don’t even need to ask. When would you like to go?”

“Is now too soon? I’d rather just get it over with.”

She looked him up and down. Anxiety poured off him, in the way his hands twitched and he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Then we go now,” she said. “But we should bring backup. In case it is a trap.”

“You’re right. I’m not wild about the thought of others being there for my reunion with my sister, but it is best to be prepared. Shall we ask Aveline if she feels like putting up with me a while longer? And of course Varric will already be at the tavern.”

“If it is a trap there will likely be mages involved. Aveline’s shield is good, but she can’t deflect fireballs with it. We should pick up Anders on our way.”

“We are not taking _Anders_ with us,” Fenris growled. “He has no right to know what goes on between me and my sister.”

“If everything looks alright we’ll send him away. If not, we’ll need him. At least he’s a healer. Or would you rather Merrill’s blood magic?”

He bristled but said nothing further on that.

“I’ve seen the way Anders watches you,” he said instead.

“Sorta like the way you watch me, but soppier?”

“Joke all you like, I do not trust him.”

“I’m shocked! You have never said anything that would lead me to believe you had any distrust for him. I should be on my guard, you’ll be turning on me next.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he growled, and Hawke immediately shut her mouth. Neither one of them wanted to think about what had happened in the Fade. But that had been three years ago, before that night. Everything had changed since then. Hadn’t it? And he had never given her cause to doubt him since. Hadn’t he?  
“We should move on,” he said.

“Yes. The sooner we meet her the sooner we’ll know if you’re safe.” She made for the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rather suddenly. “If we had time I would tell you everything.”

“About Varania?”

“About that night three years ago. I— there is so much I want to say to you. That I _need_ to say to you.”

Hawke felt her heart sink a little. Was she in for another heartbreak? It must have showed in her expression because he touched her face, gently, his fingers sweeping through her hair.

“Don’t let go of me, Hawke,” he said. There was a pleading edge to his voice that she’d never heard before. A vulnerability she’d never witnessed in him, not even that night. It unsettled her just a little, but knew that she would be the only person ever to see and it that endeared him to her even more.

“Never,” she said, and in a moment her arms were around him and he was pulling her tight against him, his claws digging ever so slightly into her waist. It was a kiss that was at once hungry and intensely desperate, but there was also a tenderness that she had hitherto thought him incapable of.

“I felt like such a fool,” he whispered when their lips parted, but he did not withdraw. His lips brushed hers as he spoke, and she inhaled his breath. “I wanted to tell you then how I felt. I couldn’t. I—“

She silenced him with another kiss.

“Tell me after we’ve met your sister,” she said. She had waited three years, she wanted to savor what he had to say. “We have time.”

“Of course. Perhaps meeting her will answer the questions I’ve had for years. And once I know my history, then… other issues should not be such a problem.” His body pressed more firmly against hers and she realized what she felt pressing against her was not his armor. She felt like a mage had engulfed her in flame, every inch of her skin burned and her mouth ran dry. Her grip on him tightened.

“Then let us get to the Hanged Man.”

He laughed. “Now who is in a hurry? You are right, there is no need to rush. I have the rest of my life to tell you all the things I should.”

“But what if you’re right and this is a trap?”

“You and I have walked into traps together before. We always survive. What’s a few more hunters?”

“I hope you’re right.” She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. “I’m never letting go of you, Fenris.”

He kissed her one last time, lightly.

“I am yours.”


	2. Don't Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unwelcome guest arrives and things do not go as planned.

    Hawke did not pull her hood down or her mask aside when they entered the Hanged Man.  Normally she made an entrance — and she could make a hell of an entrance, enough to make Varric proud — but tonight she stuck to the shadows, invisibly sliding along the edges of the main room. She motioned Anders to join Varric at the bar. The mage hadn’t been happy about being drag along on “yet another of of Fenris’ paranoid vendettas,” as he’d put it, but at a single word from Hawke he’d agreed.

    Fenris strode into the middle of the tavern, scanning the faces of each patron. _Don’t reveal yourself yet!_ Hawke thought. He was anxious, and it was making him reckless. He should have at least let her check the back rooms first. Tevinter slavers tended to stand out. But while nerves usually made him more cautious, there was a spark of hope in him that he could not fully bury. And she had not seen him hope in a long time.

    Fenris’ posture stiffened noticeably, his limbs tense and ready to act. Hawke reached back and unsnapped the leather thong that safeguarded her daggers in their sheaths then risked moving a little closer, keeping an eye on the other patrons. It was not unusual for the tavern to be this busy, but tonight she didn’t see any of the regular elbow-benders. There were plenty of faces she could not place, however. Faces that were too well washed or clean-shaven to be Lowtown’s usual crowd. Beer was being drunk, cards were being played, but no one was harassing the tavern girls and the laughter seemed somehow too loud, too forced. they could not linger here. If Fenris had found his sister then they needed to grab her and get out.

    An elven woman with a thin face and bright red hair looked up at Fenris when he stopped in front of her. There was little warmth in her expression. It was closer to sadness. “I really is you,” she said in a resigned tone.

    “Varania?” she heard Fenris say. He could not mask the hope in his voice. She tensed as she saw his guard drop. “I… remember you,” he continued. Hawke froze. He could remember? No, not now, this was not the time to think about that. _Shit_. He was losing himself, not paying attention. She had to be on guard for him. “We played together in our master’s courtyard while mother worked. You called me…”

    “Leto. That is your name.”” Huh. Hawke never would have pegged him for a ‘Leto.’ Varania stood up. Hawke would have allowed herself a least a moment to pause and wonder, perhaps even give in to a shred of hope, at this memory. She could not afford that luxury; the other patrons had stopped pretending to drink the sour bear’s piss that passed for the Hanged Man’s ale. She moved out of the shadows to Fenris’ side, motioning Anders and Varric into a protective flank around him.

    “What’s wrong?” Fenris asked his sister. “Why are you so—“

    But Hawke cut him off. “Fenris, we have to get out of here! Now!”

    “Ah, my little Fenris,” someone said from the stairs. “Predictable as always.” A man in mage’s robes was descending, flanked by two soldiers in Tevene uniform. There was only one person in Thedas he could be.

    Hawke had never seen terror on Fenris’ face before. She didn’t like it.

    “I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” the elf woman said quietly.

    In an instant he was the Fenris she knew again and he moved quickly toward Varania, his body poised for attack, the fear now replaced with his usual mask of rage. “You led him here,” he snarled.

    “Now, now, Fenris,” Danarius, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.” Up close Hawke could see the wasted flesh that had once been his face under that greyed beard, his skin sunken in around the eyes and nose so that she could clearly see the skull underneath.

    “I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius!” Fenris spat. “But I won’t let you kill me to get them.”

    Danarius’ laugh was smug and patronizing. “How little you know, my pet.” Hawke could feel her flesh crawl and she took a small step closer to Fenris. The movement caught Danarius’ attention. “And this is your new mistress, then? You must be the Champion of Kirkwall. Why don’t you take off that mask of yours and let me have a look at you? I am told you’re deadly _and_ beautiful.”

    Behind her she heard Varric groan.

    “Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone,” Hawke snapped.

    “Do I detect a hint of jealousy? It’s not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn’t he?”

    “Shut your mouth, Danarius!” Fenris’ tattoos glowed, making Hawke’s skin buzz and crackle.

    Danarius only gave an exasperated sigh. “The word is ‘Master.’”

    That burning hot coal of rage that Hawke had been bottling in the pit of her stomach—especially since the ‘skilled’ comment—erupted. Her hand reached for the daggers on her back.

    “I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face,” she said through clenched teeth. Before her fingers could close around the hilts, however, someone else’s hands grabbed her wrists with a vice-like grip. She couldn’t believe she had let someone get so close behind her without her notice. She had been so focused on Danarius and Fenris that she hadn’t been paying attention. Why had Varric and Anders let someone sneak up on her?

    But a quick look behind her showed that all the tavern’s patrons had gotten to their feet, swords in their hands. Both Varric and Anders had blades trained on them.

    The man holding Hawke’s wrists yanked her arms down and twisted them behind her.

    “Somehow I knew you’d be a problem.” Knight-Commander Meredith’s voice said very close behind her. Damnit, she knew someone had come into the Hanged Man behind her. Why hadn’t she taken a closer look? “Magister Danarius is here with the permission of the city of Kirkwall to retrieve his lost property.”

    “Last I checked slavery was still illegal here,” Hawke snarled.

    “But the Imperium has rights to seek escaped slaves beyond its borders. To stand in the Magister’s way wold be to violate that treaty.” He tone was almost smug. “And we cannot stand against the armies of Tevinter. Would you start a war over an elf?”

    “Fenris is a free man.”

    “He is the property of Magister Danarius. Perhaps I should have you arrested for theft. I can add it to your rap sheet.”

    “Anders,” Hawke hissed between her teeth.

    “What?”

    “You’re the only one who can do something.”

    “You want me to expose myself in front of the Knight-Commander and risk tranquility? Even you can’t ask me to be that reckless.” Under his breath she thought she heard him add “not for this.” She gritted her teeth.

    “Will you give up the elf willingly you or do I cut down you and your companions where you stand for obstructing justice?” Meredith said. She drew her sword, the point at Hawke’s throat.

    Hawke spat at her feet. “This is not justice.”

    “There is no need for that, Knight-Commander,” Danarius said. “I’m sure she’ll see reason.” He turned to address Hawke directly. “I’ll make it worth your while. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal. Refuse me and my troops will descend on the city and you will be responsible for it’s fate. No one will call you ‘Champion’ after that.”

    “You would destroy Kirkwall and thousands of innocent people?” Hawke asked, skeptical. “No slave is worth that cost.”

    “Oh, but this one is. You’ve sampled his talents, I can see it in your face. You know his worth.”

    “You would start a war with the Free Marches for this?”

    “The other city-states would not miss Kirkwall. They’d relish the opportunity to scavenge the caracas. Nor would they dare raise their banners against the Imperium. We are too strong for them.”

    “Would you truly risk so many lives to keep your pet?” Meredith asked. Hawke set her mouth in a thin, angry line. “I am awaiting your decision, Messere.” The two women glared at one another, hatred burning in each one’s expression. After a while Meredith spoke again. “Very well. Take your slave, Magister.”

    Hawke could have sworn she heard Anders muttering behind her. “I thought I was the only one thinking that.”

    “Hawke,” Fenris whispered beside her. “Don’t let go of me.” She didn’t say a word as she held Meredith’s smug gaze. She had to think of something. She had to. But her mind was only a thin, high-pitched scream. Any move she made would instantly be answered with death and Fenris would _still_ be taken. If it was just Danarius, his handful of Tevinter goons, and whatever demons the mage could conjure that would be one thing. It wouldn’t be easy, but they’d be able to handle it together. But Meredith had brought an entire compliment of Templars with her. And the four of them could not take both forces combined. Fenris was still watching her and out of the corner of her eye she saw his expression slowly change. “ _Hawke_ ,” he pleaded.

    “I’ll get you back,” she whispered. “I promise. I’ll bring you home.”

    “Please don’t do this. I need you.”

    “I’m sorry, Fenris.”

    “You’re kidding, right?” Varric asked. Hawke’s guts twisted inside of her.

    “I swear I’ll come for you.” She had to work hard to keep her voice from breaking. Danarius was looking amused.

    But Fenris’ face had hardened. “I suppose I should not be surprised.”

    “What shall it be, Fenris?” Danarius asked. “Will you throw your life away?”

    For a long moment he glared at Hawke and she held his gaze, unable to breathe. Then his face fell, his gaze dropped, and his entire body slumped, broken.

    “No. I will come with you.” Hawke’s fists clenched as he turned to take his place beside his former master, now Master once more, adopting the same defeated posture he’d had outside her door. He stood there statuesque, eyes fixed on the the ground.

    “Lovely! Here’s a token of my appreciation, Champion.” One of Danarius’s lackeys stepped forward with a purse of coins. He tipped it over, spilling its contents over her boots with a sneer. Five sovereigns rolled across the sticky blood-beer-and-vomit-stained floor. “I’m sure I can arrange to have something more… appropriate sent along soon.” His eyes swept over the elf warrior in a way that made Hawke’s stomach lurch. “And don’t worry about our dear Fenris, here. He’ll soon forget all about your betrayal.” His fingers brushed the Hawke crest on Fenris’ hip, then plucked it from the unresisting slave’s belt. Fenris did not move a muscle, simply stood there waiting for his next command. “You may have this back now. He won’t be needing it anymore.” And the crest, too, landed at her feet. “Come along, everyone! The boat for Minrathous leaves within the hour!” And Danarius walked toward the door, his retinue in tow. He did not bother to ensure that Fenris followed, he seemed to know that he would follow.

    And follow Fenris did. He walked past Hawke without a word, without a look, his head still hung low.

    “Fenris,” she breathed, willing him to know that this was not the last he’d see of her. She’d come for him. But he either did not hear her or refused to hear her as he followed his master out of the Hanged Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the in-game bits. Everything after this will be original material. Thou hast been warned.
> 
> Also, please don’t hate me Anders fans. I know he doesn’t come off looking good in this chapter, nor will he in the next (at least the first half), but we both have to admit everything he says is totally in character and most of it is right out of the game. Don’t worry, he’ll redeem himself.


	3. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a good deal of Hawke angst and some blood is spilled.

    The point of Meredith’s sword hovered just a few inches from Hawkes throat, but the Templar who had been holding her arms behind her had finally let go. She rubbed some life back into her wrists, wanting so much to wipe that smirk off the Knight-Commander’s face. Could the three of them take all these Templars? She doubted it. Fenris had always been the secret to her success.

    Hawke pulled off her hood and unclasped the mask over her mouth and nose, taking a deep breath of the tavern’s fetid air. _Vomit, sour ale, and desperation_ , Fenris had said once. It was an apt description just now. The sword’s point was still just a few inches away and Hawke took a step closer. Templars moved in but did not stop her, and Hawke kept her glare fixed firmly on Meredith as she pressed her throat against the blade. It stung where it parted her skin, drawing a line across her neck, the blood warm and ticklish as it dripped drown her throat and over her breastplate. Meredith’s smirk widened to a grin.

    “You’re not invincible, Hawke.”

    “Just get out of my way.”

    “And let you go where? Down to the docks to attack a Magister and his retinue? I won’t let you risk this city just so you can get you pet back. No, you and your friends will be coming to the Gallows with me, where you will be my honored guests for the next week.”

    “A whole week?” Varric chimed in. “Knight-Commander if you were truly so desperate for my amiable company and sparkling conversation all you had to do was ask.”

    “Shut up, Dwarf. I’m not letting any of you go until Danarius is well out of your grasp. I have my people taking the rest of your associates into custody as we speak, in case you were thinking of smuggling any messages to them. They will met us at the Gallows.”

    One of the Templars who had followed Danarius into the street came back in, bowing to Meredith. She bent her ear to him as he said something in undertones Hawke could not hear.

    “Very well,” the Knight-Commander said. “We’ll be going sooner than expected. Now move.”

    Someone shoved Hawke toward the tavern door. As she passed Meredith, the Knight-Commander bent to pick something up.

    “I’m sure you won’t want to forget this.” She held out the Hawke-crest favor Fenris had worn, the five gold sovereigns resting on top of it. Hawke took one edge, letting the coins scatter again at her feet.

    “Don’t forget your reward,” Hawke said, and walked out.

* * *

 

    “Hawke!” Merrill shouted as they were forced into the cell. The elf mage ran forward and Hawke took her under one arm, pulling her tight in a protective embrace.

    “Did they hurt you?” she asked. Merrill shook her head, but she was even more pale than usual.

    “Oh Hawke. When hey came for me I was sure— They dragged me out of my home. In front of everybody. I thought they were going to execute me on the spot. And when they brought me here I thought they were going to make me tranquil. I was terrified.” Her fingers hooked into Hawke’s breastplate, holding on tight. “What is going on? Why are we here?”

    “I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself,” Aveline said from the corner. “And how I got dragged into this. Do you have any idea how humiliating is was to be dragged out of my office by Templars? I can only imagine the gossip going around the barracks right now.”

    “And where is Fenris?” Merrill asked before Hawke could even open her mouth for an explanation. The girl giggled. “Bet they couldn’t get anywhere near him. He’ll come for us. Especially now that you’re here, Hawke.”

    Hawke took a deep breath to steady herself and explained their situation. She managed to get through it all without her voice cracking once, although her eyes stung and her skin prickled. The other two women just stared at her when she finished.

    “Here,” Anders said kindly, breaking the long silence. “Let me heal that cut.”

    “Leave it.”

    “If you don’t let me heal you, it will scar.”

    “Maybe I want it to.”

    Anders’ mouth set in a firm line. “You don’t have to punish yourself. You did nothing wrong.”

    “Didn’t I? I just let them take him.”

    “Wallowing in self pity isn’t going to help anyone, least of all getting us out of here. I don’t know about you, but I’m not anxious to be the Templars’ guest for the next week.”

    “Relax, Blondie,” Varric said, “no one is interested in you right now.”

    “And how long do we expect that to last?”

    “Everybody just shut up,” Hawke snapped. “We’re wasting our breath bickering. We have to figure out a plan to get Fenris back. We’re in here a week, that gives Danarius a damn good head start. We’ll have to get our hands on a fast ship. Maker I wish Isabela was still here—“

    “Hawke, you don’t really expect Meredith to just let you to go running off after him, do you?” Aveline asked.

    “I’ll figure something out.”

    “And I supposed that will be something illegal that I’m expected to turn a blind eye to.”

    “I know I ask a lot of you but please. Who else can he depend on? We’re Fenris’ friends.”

    Anders scoffed. “Not me.”

    Hawke was on her feet in an instant. “And how do I know you didn’t have some hand in all this? You were ready to just hand him over, what did Danarius offer you to betray us?’

    “Look, I may not like the elf but I’d never betray you—“

    “You turn on him and you turn on me. What did Danarius offer you? To make you his apprentice? You already saw what we did to the last one!”

    “I swear to you I had no part in this! I wanted Fenris gone but I had nothing to do with Danarius!”

    Her fists closed around his robes and dragged him toward her. “You were quick enough to agree to give him up!”

    “Hawke,” Varric warned, but she could already see the telltale blue flash in Anders’ eyes.

    “Oh yes please, let Justice have a say in this. Let’s see what he has to say about a mage fighting for his freedom giving a man back into slavery. I swear to Andraste, you say one more word and I’ll kill you both.” She could see the struggle for control and decided to push a little harder. She couldn’t let go, the rage had taken over now. “Why do you still call him ‘Justice’ when that’s not what he is? You’ve twisted him into something darker. But you won’t call him ‘Vengeance’ because you can’t admit even to yourself that your vendetta is personal and self-serving. So you hide behind self-righteousness and call it ‘Justice’—“

    The spirit won control and power crackled over Anders’ body, magic glowing in his hands. Hawke stood ready against him, her mouth a snarl and her hands ready for the kill. Danarius’ blood had been denied her and someone was going to die, she didn’t care who.

    But before Justice could strike Anders had control again, shouting the spirit down and crouching low on the dust-strewn floor. “No…” he moaned. “We can’t do this.”

    “Can’t we?” she spat. “Come on. Let the abomination out.”

    “That’s enough, Hawke,” Aveline said, forcing her way between them and pushing Hawke back.

    “I was only thinking of you,” Anders said, catching his breath. “I have only ever thought of you. Do not risk your life over this. Please. This city needs you. We need you.”

     Hawke felt a part of her want to soften, to apologize for losing her temper with him. The same part that was horrified that she had been ready to kill a friend because her rage demanded a sacrifice. But the rest of her wasn’t ready to give into sentiment yet and she turned on her heel, stalking to the far corner of the cell and sat with her back to her friends.

     _I am yours_ , he’d said. Fenris’ last words that had been just for her. A former slave, fighting every day for his freedom—both from Tevinter Hunters and from the cage of his own mind—and his last words had been to willingly give himself to her. And she had turned around and give him back to Danarius. Three years ago he had left a part of himself in her and now it had been ripped out again, leaving a hollow ache. The further away he sailed the worse that ache became and the hollow feeling spread. Her skin felt numb without the constant feel of his lyrium markings. If she closed her eyes and listened close she could hear the gulls and the water lapping the hull, the snap of the sails in the wind. She could just barely smell salt and seaweed and fish. She could see him clearly, head bowed, back bent, just like he’d been in the tavern. Broken. And she had done the breaking.

* * *

 

  
    Someone had taken his sword off of him once they’d left the tavern and _he let them_. He didn’t resist when a soldier twisted his arms behind him and shackled his wrists. The loathsome collar was clasped around his neck without a shudder, its chain lead dangling over his chest before Danarius took it up. None of it was as hated as that moment in the Hanged Man. _I’m sorry, Fenris_. Nothing of himself existed after that. The last nine years were for nothing, wiped away with two words and the sound of a name that branded him for what he was. A slave. Nothing more. Property to be bartered with. That was what she had done to him. So he drown out everything but his master’s voice. And he obeyed because it was what he knew. It was what came naturally to him.

    Four of the templars had followed them into the street. “You should hasten to the docks, my Lord,” a one said. “We will escort you there. It is not far. If you will follow me, please.”

    “No,” Danarius said. “I will not use the same gate the common rabble of this city do. There must be a gate the Kirkwall nobles use. Or what passes for nobles, I suppose.”

    “My Lord, there is s passage from Hightown but that would require us to walk through the whole of the city—“

    “Yes,” Danarius said, his fist tightening around Fenris’ leash. Fenris would not raise his eyes from the paving stones but he could hear the unpleasant sneer in his master’s voice. “It would.”

    “My Lord,” the Templar insisted. “Knight-Commander Meredith can only contain the Champion in the Hanged Man for so long—“

    “Then you’d best send your man in to tell her that my sojourn through the city will give her ample opportunity to transfer the bitch to her cell in the Gallows.”

    The Templar hesitated, but only just. Being given orders by a mage was clearly outside his comfort zone. “Yes, my Lord.”

    A sharp tug on the lead and Fenris was forced to stumble forward, eyes still fixed on the ground. Danarius set the party’s pace at a stroll as they moved through the streets of Lowtown. Residents pressed against the walls as they passed, and Fenris could feel eyes on him. If he bothered to look he was sure he would recognize several of the faces looking back—merchants, guards, people he saw every day as he followed Hawke on her excursions. Even if he knew none of them, they knew him as a part of her.

    And with that thought a little hope blossomed. Danarius took his time as he led Fenris through the city on his leash, making sure everyone saw how the proud elf they all feared had fallen, once more a Magister’s personal pet. It mattered not. They would see him proud and free again soon enough. They would tremble at his passing again. The Templars were afraid Hawke would break free and come for him. Fenris knew she would. Not even an hour ago she had promised never to let go of him and there had been no lie in her face. No, Danarius could take as long he wanted. Hawke would be waiting for him at the docks when they arrived.

    He believed it as they emerged at the docks to the overpowering stench of fish. He believed it he was tugged alongside a ship, seamen already preparing for sail. Any moment now she would emerge from the shadows, her twin daggers delivering pain and death to these Tevinter slavers, leaving Daranius’ life in Fenris’ hands.

    He almost still believed it as he balanced his way up the gangplank. There was no point in struggling, it would only give her away too soon.

    As Danarius wandered off to order the Captain to leave, Varania took him below decks. By the time he fully accepted that Hawke was not coming for him, he could see the Gallows passing by from the windows of Danarius’ suite. It had all been lies, after all. And he thought he knew all her lying faces. Apparently her most convincing one looked like love.

    By the time Danarius came into the room, Varania had removed the cuffs from Fenris’ wrists as well as his breastplate, pauldrons, and gauntlets, but the collar remained. His master simply strolled in and sat at his desk, ignoring the two elves waiting in the center of the room. Fenris kept his eyes on the wood grain at his feet—it made his neck and shoulders ache, it had been so long since he had demurred himself so consistently. That was something Hawke had coaxed him out of. Varania watched Danarius write out a letter, the long silence broken only by the scratching of his quill. Finally he rolled up the parchment and sealed it.

    “Varania, have the captain send a crow to Knight Commander Meredith and then bring my tea. It should be ready by now, and if it’s not have the cook thrown over the side. He just might make it to shore before the sharks get him. Might.”

    “Yes, Master,” she said, taking the scroll and speeding out the cabin door. It clicked shut with a finality that made Fenris shudder. Still Danarius said nothing to him but came to stand directly in front of his prize. After a moment he took up the chain again and pulled so hard that Fenris fell forward on his hands and knees. He dared not get up again without being ordered to.

    Danarius paced around him and Fenris could feel the Magister’s eyes roaming over him, making his flesh crawl. The lyrium hummed in response. The clasp of the collar snapped open and it clattered to the floor. Fenris felt the old man’s fingers on the back of his neck, sliding up along his scalp to the top of his head, and then suddenly Danarius had a fistful of his hair and his head was yanked back painfully, pulling him upright until all he could see was the ceiling and dancing spots in his vision. It was difficult to breath.

    “What is this mess you call hair?” his master asked. “This is what happens when I’m not around to take care of you. You’ve really let yourself go, Fenris.” He released his grip and Fenris’ fell forward on his hands again, neck aching. He had to take a few deep breaths but still did not dare move. He had to live just a little longer. She might still come, though part of him knew he was holding on to a lie. He ignored it.

    “Get up,” Daranius snapped as the door opened and Varania came back in with a tea tray. “So you remember your sister? How extraordinary. When I took your memories I thought they were gone for good. But it seems some shadow of them still exists, locked away in that troubled little brain of yours. No matter, I will just have to be more thorough the next time.” Danarius waited for Fenris to pick himself up on the floor, assuming once more his proper position with head bowed and shoulders slumped. “Look at your sister,” he commanded. “Remember what you can of her.”

    Fenris did as he was bid. Yes, he did remember her. He’d protected her, from other children and from human boys who had wanted to hurt her. They’d hoped she wouldn’t be beautiful but even at a young age they could tell she wasn’t one of the lucky ones. Not that ugly girl-children were any safer from their masters; it just happened less frequently, and they tended to be fought over less. No, Varania would not be one of the lucky ones. And then the inevitable had happened, just after she’d started to develop her womanly figure. They both had errands to run at the market so he went with her. His back had been turned for only a minute, until he heard her screaming. No one else turned. No one else cared. He’d killed the lad—some human servant—with his bare hands. That _did_ get people’s attention. Elf slaves did not kill humans of any status—at least not if they wanted live much longer. But Danarius had been in the crowd of onlookers, and he had noticed Fenris’ potential…

    He’d paid quite a lot, even for a doomed slave’s mark, and Danarius never let him forget it.

    The memories did not come back in a rush. They were suddenly… there. As he looked at his sister he found himself thinking about that day, about the sea of angry and disgusted faces, and that one face that seemed contemplative, almost amused.

    That same amused face floated in his periphery now and Fenris bowed his head again. “I am given to understand that you have developed quite the hatred for mages. Do you know why your sister sold you out? Because _she_ is a mage, and I promised to make her my apprentice once you were safe in my custody.”

    Hatred exploded through his body, his lyrium tattoos flaring to life as his head snapped up, glaring at Varania. She cowered under his look and Danarius chuckled.

    “But let us be honest. Who keeps a promise to an elf?” The blow caught Varania across the jaw, knocking her back. “Did you really think the other Magisters would see you as anything above a servant? Accept you as an equal? Stupid child.” He extended his hand and magic crackled over her body, making her limbs contort in agony. “And besides. I can’t risk having you around the estate, reminding Fenris who he is at every turn. No one will miss you.”

    “I— I’m a free woman!” Varania managed to choke out between gasps for breath.

    Danarius walked over to his vanity and picked up the wash bowl, tipping the water on the floor and bringing it over to her writhing form.

    “You are an elf. No one cares.” He pulled her head back—the same way he had Fenris—and with a small blade he slit her throat. The basin collected most of the blood, but a fair amount splashed onto the floor and soaked into the wood. Fenris had no doubt it would be his duty to clean it up later.

    Danarius let the body drop on the floor, wiping his hands on her skirt. He looked up at Fenris, who quickly looked at the floor.

    “You must be feeling quite a lot of anger right now, my pet. No doubt seeing your sister dead has stirred some of that rage I so missed in you.”

    Yes, he felt rage, but that anger was directed at the fact that he had wanted to kill Varania, himself. Hers was the last knot in a long string of betrayals.

    “Get rid of the body,” Danarius continued. “Just chuck it out the window. I think we can both agree she does not require a proper burial.”

    Fenris did as he was bid, hauling his own flesh and blood over his shoulder and letting it tip over the ship’s side like so much trash. There was a splash and then nothing. He closed the window again.

    When he turned Danarius was right beside him, so close that Fenris could feel the old man’s breath on his face. It smelled like mint leaves. The magister’s fingers explored the red favor around Fenris’ wrist—Varania had tied it carefully into place after she’d removed his gauntlets, though he was not sure if she had done it out of kindness or mockery.

    “Another mark of ownership from your mistress? And you claim to belong to no one.” He untied the favor, unwrapping its scarlet coils from around Fenris’ wrist. It was quite long once unwound. “On your knees.”

    Fenris closed his eyes tight and obeyed. Rebellion would bring only death and he had to _live_ , if only for a little while longer.

    A smack across the face forced him to open his eyes again. There was a flash of red in his field of vision and the favor was wrapped once around his neck. Danarius took a tight hold of his arms and twisted them back and upward at a painful angle, tying the ends of the ribbon to his wrists. If Fenris struggled the loop around his neck would tighten, choking him.

    “You disappoint me, Fenris. I was led to believe that you’ve given reign to that spirit of yours. I was looking forward to a challenge.” Fenris heard his master open a drawer in the bedside table, and then the cork pulled from a bottle. The room was instantly overpowered by the smell of half-rotted roses. Danarius fisted Fenris’ hair again and yanked back his head. The sickeningly sweet liquid was forced into his mouth, a hand clamped over his face so that he could’t breath until he swallowed. It tasted as strong as it smelled, and the familiarity of it made his stomach churn. He knew the potion well; it would leave him insensible with want. In the days before Fenris had known freedom, he had drugged himself with it many times to make his duties easier to bare.

    Fenris swallowed with a cough and Danarius took his hand away slowly, fingers tracing the lyrium brands down his throat.

    “If you’re going to take my memories then get it over with,” Fenris spat.

    Danarius’ smile was piteous. “Oh no. I want you like this for a while longer. I want there to still be fight left in you so I can enjoy breaking you all over again.” And with that Fenris was dragged toward a door that was fastened closed with several locks. Danarius ripped it open and shoved Fenris into a dark cubby that was barely large enough for him to curl up in. The noose around his neck was already tightening, but the real discomfort was that the potion was already starting to take effect.

    “Sweet dreams, my pet,” Danarius said. “They will be the last time you ever see her.”


	4. Make Them Suffer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke gets some time to herself, then gets a lecture, then gets accosted by an overly friendly assassin.

    The first morning after their incarceration, the two guards who had come in to bring food and empty their bucket walked into a futile ambush. Hawke knew it wouldn’t get them far. They were in a fortress full of Templars—a fortress that also happened to be an island. It was a last ditch effort and she knew it, but it was better than doing nothing while Fenris was carried further away from her. Better than feeling that hollow ache spread. Plus, she wondered how far she’d get.

    As it turned out she didn’t even get as far as the door. Either Meredith was bloody brilliant at anticipating Hawke’s every move, or Hawke was just that predictable. She’d only managed to keep them from dragging Merrill away by putting herself between them, taking their blows. No, she wouldn’t try that again. Not if it meant risking her friends.

    The following day was spent huddled on the floor around the candle they’d been given—not that it gave off much light and even less warmth—and played they day away with Diamondback and Wicked Grace. The deck of cards they’d found was so hopelessly marked that after a few hands it didn’t take telepathy to know what cards everyone was holding, and of course everyone knew that no one was holding the Seven of Serpents because it had yet to be found. That in combination with the lack of ale and money to gamble with made card-playing a rather uninteresting pastime.

    By the second day even Varric had tired of telling wild tales, but there was little else to do in that dank cell. Hawke spent most of her day on her tip-toes with her chin resting on the high window sill, staring out to sea. The guard that came in later that evening to bring them dinner made the mistake of giving Merrill a funny look and the other guards had to pry Hawke’s fingers away from his throat. It was well past midnight when the Templars barged into the cell again and dragged Hawke out kicking and clawing. They slung her between them and carried her to a different wing of the prison where they threw her in solitary confinement.

    There was no window and no candles. The straw smelled foul and it took her quite some time to find the bucket in the corner. No one ever came to empty it. Food came once a day, pushed through a slot at the bottom of the door.

    At first she tried to keep track of the hours and the days. It was too dark even to count the stones in the walls so there was nothing to do but think. She planned. Plotted. Imagined a map of Thedas in her mind’s eye. Why a boat to Minrathous? Tevinter shared a border with the Free Marches and a land trip would be much shorter. But the mountains to the North were difficult to cross. And on a ship, if Fenris did manage to break his chains, where could he go? Danarius was smart; a boat was a much better prison. But Varric had to have contacts who could get her through the mountains. It would cost a lot of coin but she’d gladly spend her entire fortune if it meant getting her to Minrathous before Danarius’ ship.

    The thought entertained her for what she assumed was a few days. They should be letting her out soon. Meredith had said a week, yes?

    They did not come. They had been irregular in passing food into her cell, as well. Sometimes it felt like only a few hours had passed since they pushed stale bread and water for her cup under her door. Sometimes when they pulled back the latch she saw brilliant torchlight that stung the eyes and sometimes it was daylight so bright that it seared straight into her brain, giving her a headache that would make her vomit into the rapidly filling bucket in the corner. She was sure they skipped some days entirely and she took to rationing her food and water against uncertainly and starvation. It was no longer possible to tell how many days had passed. She started pounding her fists against the door when they came to feed her, shouting until her throat and fists were bloody.

    When they first threw her in, her dreams were of rescuing Fenris. Now his face had been replaced by dreams of warm mulled wine and pigeon pies, of hot baths and a soft bed. All the things she would enjoy when they finally let her out. But soon even that dreams was replaced simply by the want of the sound an opening door. No one was coming for her. She would never hear the creak of hinges, never see a patch of sky or his face again. She had finally crossed Meredith for the last time and the Knight-Commander was leaving her in here to die.

* * *

 

  
    Hawke was asleep when they came again. The sound of the hatch sliding back startled her awake.

    “Put your hands through,” someone commanded. Great, now they planned to maim to boot. Well she wasn’t about to let them take her hands on top of everything else. She jumped as the Templar’s armored fist struck the door. “Put your hands through!” he shouted again.

    “Has anyone even bothered to check if she’s still alive?” someone else asked in a rather exhausted tone. She knew that voice: Knight-Captain Cullen.

    And then she heard it: the locked clicked open and the hinges of the door screamed as it was pulled open. She blinked in the torchlight, holding up a hand to shield her eyes. A bank of high, narrow windows across from her showed a deep night sky, the few clouds made orange by the city’s light. Here eyes burned and water and she squeezed them shut again.

    “Messere Hawke,” Cullen said, helping her up. “The Knight-Commander would like to see you.”

    “She will have to wait,” Hawke said, “I am not dressed to receive.” She tried to stand but her legs quickly folded under her, shaking too much to hold her own weight. When did her armor become so heavy? She’d never really noticed it before. Cullen come forward and helped her up, pulling one arm over his shoulder and his other hand at her side. If she had been in a better mood she would have laughed. What man in all of Thedas could put a hand on a woman’s waist while making it painfully clear that he wasn’t trying to cop a feel?

    “I am very sorry that I cannot see to it you get a proper meal first,” he said as he helped her out f the cell. “But the Knight-Commander was very insistent that you be brought to her immediately.”

    “Very well, but if she wants us to kiss and make up before I’ve had a chance to brush my teeth then it’s her funeral.”

    The guard that had been banging on the door came forward with the shackles, reaching for Hawke’s wrists, but Cullen waved him back.

    “I think we can dispense with the chains.”

    “But Knight-Captain—“

    “Lady Hawke can barely stand, do you really think she’s going to try to rip your throat out again?”

    Hawke opened her eyes just a little and squinted. Yes, it was the Templar who had looked in Merrill’s direction when Hawke had been in a bad mood. There were still scabs on his neck and he rubbed them angrily when he caught her looking at them.

    “We shouldn’t keep the Knight-Commander waiting, Messere.”

* * *

 

  
    In the end it was the night Knight-Commander who kept Hawke waiting. She wasn’t doing anything important and Hawke knew it. It would be so satisfying to reach across the desk and rip apart the papers the woman was pretending to read so thoroughly, but she didn’t want to be thrown back into that dank cell. Instead she put her feet up on the desk, shaking one boot slightly to make sure some of the dirt fell off and onto the other papers scattered across its surface. Meredith glared but Hawke just smiled back sweetly, resting comfortably.

    “I’m releasing you,” Meredith said after a while, squaring her stack of reading and setting it aside.

    “And my friends?” Hawke asked.

    “I let then go some time ago.”

    Her brow creased. “How long was I…?”

    “I’d say it’s been a little over two weeks.”

    Hawke balked. “Since you arrested me?”

    “No, since I had you thrown into solitary confinement. The rest of your original sentence didn’t seem long enough; there were only four days left. I thought a week in the pit would do you good. But then by the time the end of the week came I thought to myself ‘what’s a little longer? it’ll do her good.’ Then to be honest I forgot about you until this morning when Cullen asked about you. I’m surprised he bothered after you attacked his men.” Hawke felt her fingers twitch, yearning to reach for Meredith’s throat. “Danarius should be nearly back in Tevinter with his property by now. _Do not_ interrupt me. The city might call you ‘Champion’ because you killed a heathen, but that title holds no sway with me. Your will alone cannot break international law or the treaties we have with the Imperium. I know you were fond of the elf but the world does not bend around you because _you_ feel like throwing a temper tantrum.” She sat back, taking a deep and swallowing the anger Hawke could feel pouring off her. “And as much as I don’t like it this city looks to you. Calls you their ‘Champion’ when I am the one sacrificing everything to protect them. And politicians outside this city take notice of you as well. Which means any action you take has the weight of Kirkwall behind you. If you strike out at Danarius you are striking in the name of Kirkwall. Would you risk the city to satisfy your vendetta?”

    “Fenris deserves justice.”

    Meredith scoffed. “Justice. Call it what it is, Champion. Cold, selfish revenge. I will not let you put Kirkwall at risk for your self-righteous quest.” Hawke felt guilt twist inside of her and Anders’ face floated in the back of her mind, mocking her. “Which is why I am having a full surveillance detail assigned to you. If you so much as leave the city gates I will not only arrest you but all your property will be seized.”

    “Do I look like I care about my estate?”

    “Perhaps not, but I know you care for your friends, as this whole exercise in futility proves. You will not suffer alone. I will see to it your friends suffer as well. You have two apostates who have enjoyed your protection. They will be tranquil before the day is done. Aveline will be dragged from the barracks in chains and publicly disgraced. And the Dwarf will find himself in the hands of the Merchants Guild after evidence has mysteriously turned up that he’s involved with the Carta. And we both know how the Guild deals with traitors. Do you understand me?”

    Hawke nodded, but only barely.

    “Good. If you don’t care for your personal welfare or for the people of this city, I know what you are willing to do for your friends. I’m glad we could come to an agreement on this.” She waved her hand in dismissal and but Hawke did not budge.

    “You can’t watch me forever,” she said.

    “No, but I can watch you long enough until I know that Danarius has done his damage and running off to save your pet is a exercise in futility. Now get out.”

* * *

  
    Hawke dragged herself upstairs, punching the bannister with every step until her knuckles were bloody and swollen. _Powerless_. That was not a feeling she was used to. At least, not in recent years. But if she was being honest with herself, it seemed to happen a lot. First she’d been powerless to save Carver. Then Bethany. Then her mother. Now Fenris. But he still lived and she could do nothing for him. At least, not yet.

    There was an elf on her bed. Not the one she wanted there, either.

    “I could get used to these accommodations,” Zevran said. “So luxurious. This bed is soft and warm, no?”

    On any other occasion she would have quipped at him before letting her mabari, Magnus, eat him.

    “How did you get in here?” she growled. He clucked his tongue at her.

    “An assassin never gives up his secrets.”

    “You managed to get past my manservant and my mabari all the way into my bedroom.”

    “Getting into bedrooms without detection is a particular talent of mine. Getting back out again… well..” He spread his hands wide in a noncommittal sort of gesture.

    “Why are you here?” she asked. “You need more help? I’m afraid I’m all out of charity at the moment.”

    “I know,” Zevran said, his face grave for the first time since she’d met it. He was unsettling without his characteristic smirk. “I can help you.” That gave her pause. She had only just left the Gallows and not even Varric knew yet that she was free (though she supposed his alleged spy network had been watching for her). There was no way word could have gotten to Zevran so quickly, much less have time to break into her estate. And who among her friends would have thought to contact Zevran, of all people, for help? He was supposed to be heading back to Antiva.

    “Who told you?” she asked simply.

    “You have helped a great many people, myself included, and we are grateful for it. A few of them keep me informed of your well-being. Including some who were outside the Hanged Man two weeks ago. I am sorry. I understand you were close.”

    Hawke scoffed. “I’m sure you’ve been as ‘close’ to a number of people.”

    “Only one,” Zevran said so honestly that it startled her. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. “I want you to trust me and so I will tell you honestly that my heart has felt as yours does now. I was sent to kill the Hero of Ferelden. I wanted her to kill me. And she did. She killed a part of me that needed to die. And I would storm the gates of the Black City itself to have her back. My heart is hard to all others, and no one warms my bed because no one can ever take her place. The part of her that is in me is the only part of her that still lives, and that is the one thing I will not kill. Not at any price.”

    “And yet you tried to get me into bed the first time we met. Is this how you honor your Warden?”

    And in a flash that trade-mark grin was back.

    “What can I say? I can still enjoy flirting with a beautiful woman. But I knew you would never have accepted my offer. I know when a woman truly wants me, and when a woman is flirting because she is putting on a brave face. The only thing that surprised me was who you were putting that brave face on for. The elf is a bit… broody, no?”

    Hawke took the crest off her belt and set it carefully on the mantle

    “He is my heart and soul.”

    “Fair enough. That is why I am here. It is death to impart to others the teachings of the Crows. But since I no longer owe any allegiance to them, and since you saved my life, I will happily teach you all I learned with them. You know how to disappear into the shadows, this is good, but can you disappear out of a man’s very hands?” She turned away. “No? I understand it is a skill that would have proved useful in the Hanged Man. Perhaps the broody elf would still be here to warm your bed if you had. I will teach you these things. I will teach you how to make a man bleed harder, how to focus your strikes with pinpoint precision. You are deadly now. With the skills I will teach you, you will be unstoppable. And then you will have your lover back. What do you say?”


End file.
